


Woe

by Not_Even_a_Cupcake_Survived



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:23:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_Even_a_Cupcake_Survived/pseuds/Not_Even_a_Cupcake_Survived
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(A bit existentialist) High School AU, including a socially depressed John Watson and a currently developing Sherlock Holmes. Lacks a "hardcore" or smutty focus, but with a focus on John's feelings and inner world. In progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Situation

Chapter 1

I look at her. I look at them. I can’t find anything to say.  
“You should’ve been paying more attention in physics class, dear. Why have you not sat down and memorized your equations? Look at all your peers. They’re going to become successful people. Look at Marcus, for instance. He is very knowledgeable, and he is in the theater club. Why is my son not like this? Why? Don’t you want your peers to speak about you, to praise you?”  
And the correct response would be a simple yes, and a whole process of change would then begin in me, supposedly. I’d say one word, yes, and from then on, I’d climb up my way to be a successful person. Just like this Marcus that I’m being compared to.  
Now I sit in the classroom. I feel exposed. Does my hair look good? My friends are having a chatter beside me, if you could call them “friends.” I don’t know what to say. They’re talking about Marcus. One girl is almost at the verge of screaming his name out loud, hyperventilating, praising him. The others also add something to the conversation, sharing a witty joke his character made during the play, or some other instance in which Marcus shone like a star, perhaps winning an argument on lunch break with someone else. Marcus is king, I get it. These people live on praising others. They fall for unreachable people, get the illusion they’re living natural love, and follow a dumb course in which they fail to attain what they want - and they know this right from the beginning. I cannot get myself to act normally. The only thing I can do sometimes is to join in the praise-train and add something about the topic, even if it’s Marcus that I’m praising. And on these occasions, the girls give me a strange look, sometimes a sly smile. I know what they’re thinking. They think I’m gay for praising or liking Marcus, while I think I’m being better than an absolute social outcast by joining into what they’re doing. My peers like gay men for some reason, probably since they’ve been popularized by the media. They “ship” people, fictional and real, and I’ve heard they ship with me with several people as well. I jokingly tell them to ship me with Marcus, that yeah, well, I really like him a lot, so they better do ship me with him. They said they don’t.  
Sometimes, I want to be praised as well. I want to be just like Marcus, I want to have my thing too, but all I can do is to sit in the corner like a sorry little punk, do my best to put on a serious thinker’s face, as if I’m lost in my internal world of deep and wide thoughts, perhaps thinking of existentialism, while all I can think of is how jealous I am of this Marcus and how I’m a complete academic and social failure. I want someone to come and sit by me and ask me what I’m thinking. I want someone to motivate me to get this rotten pus out of my mind. I’m getting desperate by the day, I need someone to do this. I want attention. I want to be praised just like Marcus, but I can’t act. I can’t go out there and argue with people, no, I’m too much of a coward for that. I don’t have my thing. My thing is being a quiet person. That’s probably how I’m described by others around me. “Small, little, normal and quiet fellow who has a few friends, but eh, he can’t even hold a stupid conversation with anyone. You know, holding a conversation, how difficult can that be?”  
Often, one of the girls in that friend group of mine will come by and ask me if I’m feeling alright. Yes, that’s the moment to tell it all, to let it out and perhaps see if finally someone understands me. Maybe what they were doing is acting out too, after all. Maybe they feel socially restrained and misunderstood too, and we can sympathize with each other, but no. No one is coming by and saying, “John, I understand you completely.” And I think no one ever will, apart from a psychologist that my mom will get for me most likely, if I continue on this road that rolls down and down. I know what everyone else thinks about it: it’s not what you should be doing, socially isolating yourself like this, even if you’re annoyed with something around you. You need to adapt and somehow enjoy all this that might as well be disturbing you. But hell, maybe they do enjoy it, after all? Maybe they’re fine with their praise-filled lives, living on praising others, hoping for their prince charming. Like any other teenage guy in my age, I’m in a disadvantageous situation. The girls my age are complete dreamers, longing for that strong and older men, men who have attained themselves a position, talented men, protective men, men who are in the theater club, men who write plays, men who have a lot of followers on Tumblr. Men with power. Not one of them will ever come and say, “John, you might be a weakling after all, but I understand you completely and love you for just what you are.” Even repeating that voice in my head sounds very strange, like a robot, unreal.


	2. Alien Encounter

It’s another end-of-the-school moment, characterized by the orange-tinted sky and the commotion all around the corridors. Usually I just take my bag, speak to no one and walk straight home, which is nearby. Often times I am surrounded with an impulse to go out and explore, do something, see something, find something, remind myself that there’s life going on around me, even if I’m not directly a part of it. I am undecided once again, like lots of times before. Should I go home, or should I explore?  
Oh, and don’t get too excited when I say “explore.” It’s not like an Indiana Jones adventure, exploring is simply blending into the city crowd, perhaps stopping for a drink at a coffee shop, sitting, reading a book. This is my exploration. It’s better than sitting at home, completely lonely. Something is going on around me then, at least.  
So I walk, still undecided, pushing the thoughts to my subconscious, hoping that they will be magically processed there. They don’t. In the end, I’m still undecided.  
I keep walking and the school gradually empties. I walk around the buildings, into the trees, into dark, secluded corners of the school. On one of them, I find someone smoking. He looks at me, I must say he has got pretty intimidating eyes. I don’t want to linger on that corner much, so I pull my phone out, pretend I’m texting someone and walk past him, having him disappear behind me. I keep walking around the school. It has essentially emptied by now. I see and immediately envy a bunch of friends waiting near the gate of the school, presumably waiting for a cab they called. I wonder where they’re going. I’m sure they’re going somewhere fun, where they will drink and make merry.  
After a complete tour of the school, I come back to the corner where I’d found the smoker, and find him in the exact same position once again. He looks like one of those standard, cliché models that appear in teenage Vogue or whatever they’re called, lean and mean and handsome. I assume he has a girlfriend that he cheats on quite often with other girls. Whatever you do, it doesn’t matter once you reach that level of handsomeness. You’re likely to be salivated after, once you meet someone’s eye.  
“Come over here.” he says. I keep walking. He repeats it. It must be me, I think. I turn back, look around a bit without directly looking at him. Once I’m quite sure there’s no one else, I look at him. He gestures me, a bit like a pet I must say, to come near him.  
“Cigarette?” He asks. “No, I don’t smoke.” I answer. I’m nervous. He looks a bit older than me, most probably a senior.  
“Then you’ll start here, right here, with me. By the way, I’m telling you: smoking will damage your lungs. It might kill you in the long term. Do you think that’d be good?”  
“No, it’s a painful death. I’d rather die a more peaceful one. Well, um... I don’t really care whether I die or not, honestly. It could be whenever.” I feel like I’ve said too much. Why have I said these? I’ve got so much stuck up inside me, that’s probably why. It doesn’t worry me too let it all out on a complete stranger.  
“Right, don’t take it, then. You’re right. It’s a bad habit.” As he says this, he throws his currently dead one to the ground and promptly lights up another one.  
“Then why have you started smoking?” It’s one of those moments now, when I feel as if I’m two different people. One is uncontrollably and much casually conversing, the other one wants to do something to this person, or learn something. The other one is quite impulsive, and they’re independent of each other. I’m a wreck.  
He gazes onto the trees ahead of us. “I wanted some attention.” He drops his head slightly as he says this, looking at the stone tiles under us.  
“You wanted some attention?” I laugh, meaning it. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? Let me tell you, you’re one of those killer types. You don’t even have to be anyone, any girl out there should like you unconditionally.”  
He turns his head to me, smiling weakly. “So? Here I am, by myself, against a wall, smoking. I’ve said I started smoking to grab some attention, and to relieve myself of the stress of being here, of existing. If I had a girlfriend, I think I’d be spending time with her, on this Friday afternoon. But no... there’s something that I cant’ like about girls.”  
“Oh.” Is he gay, then? I hadn’t known anyone from the school admit he’s gay before... Though he hasn’t. Just yet.  
“I know what you think. It’s a bit more complicated than that. I don’t particularly like existing and interacting, let alone relationships or anything like that. I think I’m bound to have a life without much excitement in that sense, well... And girls, they don’t interest me, no.”  
“Yeah, I’d say the same on my side... I’ve had some crushes on this and that, but all turned out to be disillusioning, they just didn’t fulfill my needs.”  
“You were rejected, not liked. Simple as that.”  
“Well, fine, yes. Alright, let’s not talk about this.”  
“You’re hurt?”  
“I’ve just had enough of it. I’m done with it.”  
“You’re making such judgments, but will they last forever? Are you truly done? Do you think so?”  
“Alright, Nietzsche, thanks for the conversation. I think I’m going to be better off by myself.”  
So I start my steps again, pull out my phone, put on a face of surprise, as if I’d received an interesting text from someone. I have a feeling of sour happiness inside me.


	3. Looking for Him

    For the next few days, I think about him, mostly. In the usual monotony of high school, I created a little game for myself, in which I look for this person that I’d seen last Friday. On the hallways, I try to spot him, checking every face. In the dining hall, my eyes search for him through the rows of tables, as I try to maintain my casualty in walking and finding a proper place to sit. But then, this is not very likely: he probably was a senior, and seniors have a different timetable, including a different time for lunch. I sit with my friends now, friends that have never really been friends, just fillers for the social animal’s socialization needs. As usual, I can’t converse. They’re now talking about how Marcus has been selected among the Fellows, a popular and honorable society that represents the school on important, official meetings. Marcus shows up soon after this; the girls stand up and embrace him, eagerly congratulating him on his success, smiling and giggling. Marcus tells a pretty witty joke, and the whole table cracks up. Marcus is king, and he’s here to claim his throne. All I can do is to look at my lunch, pick at the dull meat, despise my life and wish that I’d asked for a number on that day. My usual shyness took over. Me, asking for numbers, after conversing for a few minutes with a stranger? No...  
    However many trials, shuffling aimlessly through the corridors, the face is just not there. I’m slightly upset about this, well, on top of my usual grumpiness. I have missed a chance at making a friend, most likely. But then, I’ve missed so many chances like that, and so many of those budding friendships turned out to be just shit, that I don’t really regret it. Every similar experience makes the feeling even more insignificant.   
    I often draw cigarettes on my papers on this week. It’s the only reminder of him that I have right now. Cigarettes that give you lung cancer, cigarettes that kill you.   
    After telling myself over and over again that I am actually fine with another failed relationship that was budding, I finally feel the overwhelming pain inside me. I am friendless and alone. Alone! Is there one thing that could hurt someone more, than being alone? Alone, alone, no one to talk you, no one to cover you, no one to laugh with, no one to cry with, no one to kiss with, no one that will understand you. I am alone. I need something, someone. I don’t need some girls who will live on salivating after the powerful ones. They won’t look at me anyways, and even if they do, I know they’re shallow people. Gosh, what am I even saying, blaming it on so-called shallowness, no, this is not right, I shouldn’t be sexist like this... I need someone that understands the human spirit, someone who is truly above it all; not people who are controlled by the human spirit, slaving after power.   
    So have I just missed my savior, my key to the locked door that could’ve gotten me out of here? No, logically, probably not. I am making biased judgments here, he was just teasing me there, most likely. No one would ever pay true attention to me. I’m insignificant, very insignificant actually. I feel like I’m a consumable that people talk to, and forget soon after.   
    Seeing my efforts to find him will be futile from now on, all I can hope for is to find him on the same spot, this Friday. He will most likely not be there, and I will continue with the meaningless treadmill that I will be using, until my death. 


	4. Second Friday

Days follow days, and I realize I’ve become more and more of a robot on the way. Talking with people feels almost obligatory now. I find nothing, absolutely nothing in conversing with my old friends now. I go to my lessons, I take my notes, I converse about a silly thing every now and then. I have to, I mean. Otherwise I’d be more and more ostracized.

Some of my friends are talking about Michael Fassbender now. Michael Fassbender, I think about him... I can’t find anything to say. A good-looking, talented actor, maybe acted in some roles that are to be adored, but why the excitement? Is it like he will ever satisfy you somehow, personally? Does he even know you? Does he care that you adore him? You are just like millions of others who adore him. Ah... I know I’m not making sense here. I just need to be valued a bit. I never was, I never am.

It is Friday afternoon, once again, exactly one week later. I still have some hope in this. It’s that sort of hope... When you know something is going to fail, when you are quite certain of it, but still you possess a very heart-warming kind of hope in you. It must be the possibility that makes me happy. The chance that he actually could be there. It is a chance, yes. Finally the bell rings, and I am unsure of what to do at first: I just happen to know he won’t be there.

Soon though, I make up my mind and decide to check the place. I walk out of the classroom without talking to anyone and start walking straight to the spot. I have a jittery feeling inside me. At this moment, I start thinking that actually he will be there, and I will see him and I will have my awkwardest conversation in life. I might as well cover my face and run away. Just one thing, his silhouette and the smell of cigarette, and I’d promptly turn away and walk away. Walk away, with no thoughts. Doing the right thing, then regretting it. Now I see why I’d been so bad with relationships. I can’t even go up and talk to someone who just happens to be a question mark in my life.

I’m now standing near the corner. When I turn around, I will face the truth. My heart races. I’ve stupidly made this such a big deal for myself, while it just is not. I take a deep breath and start walking confidently - seemingly confident. But about two steps before I turn around the corner, my legs stop abruptly, as if suddenly glued to the floor. My muscles tense. I am hyperventilating now. I can’t believe it. I can’t even see why I’m reacting like this.

I spit on the floor and groan to myself, under my breath. You know, just in case, he on the other side, hears it. I literally force myself around the corner, leaning on the wall, and then with a push from my arms. My eyes are closed as I turn around. Then I open them. There is no one. As I had expected. I let out a breath of relief. Then I think to myself: What was the whole purpose? All the anxiety, all the anticipation? I have been right about people, and once again I’m right. Of course he wouldn’t show up. He wasn’t impressed about me as much as I was... impressed about him? I don’t even know if I was impressed by him. I know myself so well, and in the meantime, I know so little about myself. So little about my thoughts. So little about what really drives me and what I’m really seeking from life. I’m suddenly worried and afraid that I will become a mindless drifter with no objective in life. I frantically try to think about something that motivates me, some greater meaning. All that comes to my mind is stupid homework I have to do for Monday, the loser I am, my lack of any proper friends. My loneliness. The hate I have for virtually everything. My jealousy, my bitterness. And the stupid opportunity I missed last Friday.


	5. Afternoons and Coincidences

I start walking back home, slightly sad, still relieved to a good extent. I think I’ve had enough of an adventure for myself. The thrill and the stress of meeting him on that corner was just about satisfying as meeting him. I predict that I will repeat this pattern forever. Even if I actually succeed at meeting someone, I won’t be able to act any good around him or her. I will be blown off like a frail leaf.

But then, I saw him. Time and space were playing games on me. They had coincided with such precision that my eyes were able to see him, across the corridor. The light flowed through my eyes like a blank-faced messenger. It brought news of the person standing just across me. We were brought together, to the same island, by the same tidal waves. Yes, I was absolutely sure it was him. Dark, curly hair. Eyes that would’ve bitten off a limp, like a gray shark. A face defined like a Roman marble statue. He was a marble statue carved alive by a Renaissance artist, flesh and bone perfectly woven together. Was his heart beating like mine? Gosh, he wasn’t even looking at me.

I didn’t know what to do. “No surprises there,” I thought to myself. I wanted to disappear, just go “poof”, and teleport to another dimension. Only if it was possible, only if! From my point of view, I could only see his profile. He was smoking once again, and I was taken by surprise as he was doing it indoors. His eyes looked outside, fixed on something. They looked ferocious. He reminded me of a bird of prey eyeing his next victim. I could turn back, do my best at not making a noise and exit through a nearby door. Should I do that? I immediately felt the indecision taking over me. It was especially suffocating this time. I almost gagged from the stress, barely suppressing it. I didn’t know what to do; not that it wasn’t a situation I wasn’t used to, but this time, there stood a huge valley between my decisions. Either I could run off and perhaps lose my final chance on meeting him. On the other hand, the sole idea of meeting him... was suffocating enough. In the end, I had somehow managed to process the decision: I was going to leave, forget him and remove him from my life. It was over. It hadn’t even started! There was absolutely nothing for me to lose, so I could abandon everything and expect something new to happen, maybe. Surely something was waiting me in the future. I rotated on the spot I was standing on, taking slow and careful steps back.

Then I heard him say, “Stay where you are.” So I did. I was suddenly happy. Things had gone better than expected. I still couldn’t get myself to actually look back at him. I could see myself being engulfed in red. My cheeks. I am miserable. I was very happy, but I could feel tears forming in my eyes. I was losing myself, losing all of my awareness. It was as if he was pulling it out, like magnetism gradually collecting particles. He was adding more and more to his central planet, a black hole growing stronger with every person’s whose will is broken before him. “Yeah, well, hello there. We’d met last week.” These were my words. It was like I had two separate minds right now. One of them, it spoke words for me. A downside about this one is that, I had no control of it. This mind did its best to be casual and managed to get the things going. The other one, it was silent but observing. It was so full of ideas, emotions, thoughts; it was bursting with them. It wanted to be free, but it was chained, and all it could do was to panic where it was locked. It sat silently by the porch and watched what was happening, producing a mental itch every time he said something.

“I know. Hello again. I’m hoping you weren’t too startled by my words. To be quite honest, I couldn’t figure out who you were on my peripheral vision. Whatever your motive was, you were moving very unusually, though.” Now I was looking at him. Every second, I was getting more used to him. It was very rare for me to get familiar with someone this fast. He felt natural, he felt like home; but he was still very new. As he was talking, I also enjoyed the fact that I was naturally viewing his meaningful facial expressions, his eyes and his gestures. I didn’t have to feel like an outsider, or a... pervert, at this moment. God.

I let out a nervous-sounding laugh. I’m not acting naturally. I’m withdrawing myself from reality. Right now, what I see in front of me looks entirely like a painting. I am just observing the empty corridor and him. The world gradually becomes more distant. I know what’s going on, I know where I’m dragging myself to, but there’s no help to it.

“Right, then. Um... I’m sorry, but I just can’t remember your name.”

“Sherlock.”

“Hah. That’s um, that’s a hell of a name. Sherlock! I guess it must be your grandfather’s name or something. Sounds very archaic.” Still hyperventilating, still with a silly smile drawn on my face.

“Sherlock’s actually a.... never mind. Whatever they might say, I like my name.”

As I looked more and more onto him, it stroke me that his face was actually familiar to me. Obviously I’d seen him before in the hallways. I might’ve even had a casual banter with him, sometime in the past. I could almost recall a conversation I’d had with him... months ago, during a ball. I remembered that we had both found it uninteresting, sat outside on a bench, and just chatted, randomly, about what, I don’t remember... That wasn’t the significant part, though. What was significant was the feeling that rushed through me as I remembered that. Sherlock was not a brand new shock wave rattling through my bones. Sherlock, as he was now to me, was new, but he had a base for himself. I’ve always thought it was amazing how people, who are seemingly just another person in our lives, suddenly find so much meaning once that thunder strikes. It’s much like finding hidden diamond while walking in a coal mine.

“You were John, I think?” “Yes, yes, I’m John.” “John, do you want to come over to my chemistry lab tomorrow? Little place in the garage. I’d be pleased to have you.”

“Absolutely. Chemistry, my favorite subject.”

“Lovely. It should be fun, I predict.” He puts out the cigarette, with his foot, on the ground.

“I will be off now. I’ll send you the address.” “Well, uh, see you later, Sherlock.” He goes. I watch as he goes. He doesn’t look back.

On my way back, I stop at a bookstore to pick up a book on chemistry. One of those graphical, fun books that explain the more interesting sides of science than the school textbooks. I read it as much as I can. I do it for Sherlock. I do it because I need to have something to talk with him. Chemistry, favorite subject, oh yeah. Dipole-dipole attractions, hydrogen bonds, metals, noble gases... I will tolerate. For Sherlock.


	6. On My Way

I wake up earlier than usual. Well, I don’t think I’m gay or anything, but still I prepare myself well for the occasion; having a long shower, using fancy products on my face, rinse and repeat, literally. I put on some cologne, which I think smells really good, though I’m careful not to overdo it. I can somehow create an image of how Sherlock is in my mind: nerdy and solitary, smart but somewhat enigmatic. I’m feeling that I’m already loving him quite a lot, despite that we hadn’t even had a single proper meeting or conversation. I don’t want to ask the questions now; in fact, I don’t even like asking the questions as to why I am feeling in a certain way with someone. I am more or less alright with that feeling blinding my knowledge, killing my awareness of my surroundings. 

And when I said I don’t like think I’m being gay or anything, it reminded me that I hadn’t even explored my sexuality before. That’s something to be sort of done by now, isn’t it?

I leave my house. The sky is ridden with clouds, some of them colored dark. It strikes me that a downpour could be imminent, so I quickly go back and put on my “rain gear”: plump rubber yellow boots and a matching yellow raincoat for it. Coupled with my blondness, I imagine myself to be a golden shining knight, making his way through the lands of despair, going off to fight the evil dragon that protects the beautiful, innocent princess. But then, I look back at myself and realize I’m a teenage loser wearing slightly childish rain clothing. 

I decide to take the bus to Sherlock’s neighborhood. It’s somewhat desolate and gloomy, and the rain starts pouring down the moment after I step into the bus. I find myself a seat in the back, put my bag beside me as a safeguard, just in case someone might consider the lunatic idea of sitting next to me. As the bus slowly treads to my destination, I lean my head against the windows, watching the streets go by as the downpour continues. 

Immediately I find myself immersed in daydreaming about Sherlock. In my mind, I create a situation in which I’m with Sherlock and his family, and I’m playing the violin to all of them. All of them appear to be impressed with me, especially Sherlock, who looks at me with flabbergasted eyes. Inside, I know he didn’t expect me to be such an impressive person, but there we were, I was there, playing the violin to them, showing of how capable I was. I continue to daydream, losing virtually all touch with reality, until I see a sign that notifies me I’m quite near Sherlock’s chemistry lab. 

I get up and get off at the next station, and my heart starts racing immediately. Last night, I assured myself to be calm and cold-blooded all the time as I went up to my first proper meeting with Sherlock, but it doesn’t work out. Inside, I constantly try to remind myself that my anxiety is just spent in vain, but words have lost their capabilities now. Even the most powerful, most relieving word that could be said would not be able to mitigate my nervousness at the moment. It’s a force that cannot be reckoned with, a force that is felt by no one else but me, but so strong that it’s more overwhelming than a bleeding wound on my leg. I sweat and I hyperventilate. The brawn of the feeling multiplies as I take steps towards Sherlock’s lab. It rolls down a snowy hill like a snowball, adding more oomph to itself every inch it rolls, until it is so strong that I feel like suffocating and vomiting. I see that I stand just before Sherlock’s little hut outside his home, the chemistry lab. 

I stop and try to catch my breath, once again in vain. I stupidly walk around in circles, just by the entrance, praying that perhaps time will help me extinguish my anxiety, but it only does minimal effect. I realize that the last resort is simply to knock on the door and hope for the best; hope that the future holds something good for me.

I knock on the door. Sherlock opens it barely a couple of seconds after, as if he knew I was here. With a very faint smile on his face, or so I hoped, he says: “Come in.” 


End file.
